


Thieves of the Streets of Lumiose

by Scrawlers



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 16:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrawlers/pseuds/Scrawlers
Summary: Professor Sycamore's wallet is picked from his pocket while he and Alan are on their way to lunch.





	Thieves of the Streets of Lumiose

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place post-canon, in the post-canon where Alan chose to remain at the lab to rest and recuperate after the events of canon, instead of immediately leaving on a journey again. As a brief reminder: Gabby is Sycamore’s garchomp, Camille is his golduck, and the very briefly mentioned Fulbert was his university roommate / is something like Alan’s grumpy, grizzly uncle (and is another professor, albeit with a different concentration).

In his years of traveling—and, in particular, in his years working as one of Lysandre’s special operatives—Alan had seen some things. Usually, he didn’t think about it; his experiences walking the earth and ducking into dark basements and back alleys to battle strong opponents and find Mega Stones were simply things that _happened_ , things that he learned from even if he wasn’t always aware of what he was learning. But he had traveled a lot in those years, had been sent to places outside of Kalos and, while his travels were always focused and goal-driven, the things he had experienced had shifted and reshaped the way he looked at and lived in the world around him. He was a little more guarded, a little more aware, and things that he wouldn’t have noticed or would have let slide before he set out on his journey now caught his eye and set off a little alarm in the back of his mind.

Case in point: The Professor’s wallet.

The Professor kept his wallet in his back pocket, and this was nothing new. In the same beat that Alan noticed it as the two of them planned to go out for the day, he remembered that the Professor had always kept it there, ever since Alan was a child. It was even the same wallet, Alan thought—a worn leather billfold that had a sort of rustic or antique look to it, that looked like it was about to fall apart at the hinge even though it never did. It had been ten, almost eleven years since the Professor had brought Alan home, and the Professor had always kept his wallet in his back pocket. In ten, almost eleven years, nothing bad had happened.

Alan chewed the inside of his cheek, and jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Ready to go?” the Professor asked. He had tossed his lab coat on the back of his desk chair (which was how Alan had noticed his wallet in the first place), and he gave Alan an easy smile as he looked back at him. Alan nodded, but the Professor’s smile faded as he noticed the look on Alan’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Alan said, the answer automatic. The Professor continued to watch him, his eyebrows raised just slightly, and Alan sighed. “It’s just—your wallet’s in your back pocket.”

The Professor looked over his shoulder to check, and after confirming that his wallet was indeed where Alan had said it was, he looked back at Alan, a bit bemused. “Yes, it is. Is something wrong?”

“No, not really, but . . . don’t you think that’s a little dangerous?” Alan gestured to the Professor with one hand. “It’s sticking halfway out of your pocket, easily visible. Anyone could swipe it, especially in a city like Lumiose. Any pickpocket would be gone long before you noticed your wallet was.”

“Oh.” The Professor considered Alan’s words for a moment, yet then smiled and shrugged. “Well, I’m sure it’ll be fine. There’s no real need to worry about that.”

Alan’s mouth dropped open a little. “No real need? Professor—”

“Alan.” The Professor put his hands on Alan’s shoulders, his smile never wavering. “You need to relax. You worry too much. Everything will be fine, I promise. Now come on—let’s go! If we’re going to make it down to the crepe cart before the lunch crowd does, we really should go now.”

Part of Alan wanted to press the issue. He had learned from experience how important it was to have his valuables in zippered pockets, out of sight and nigh impossible for someone to steal without him noticing. But a stronger part—a smarter part, the part that had started hissing at him the moment he opened his mouth and had been growing louder by the second—urged him to drop it. The Professor had carried his wallet in his back pocket for at least a decade, if not longer, and clearly nothing bad had happened to him. Clearly he was fine. He knew what he was doing, and it really wasn’t Alan’s place to rag on him about a non-issue. Alan shut his mouth and nodded.

“All right,” the Professor said, and he squeezed Alan’s shoulders gently before clapping him on the back. “Now, let’s go pick up something delicious for lunch, shall we?”

**\- - -**

The crepe cart they had decided to visit for lunch was located on North Boulevard, positioned on the sidewalk between the museum and Hotel Richissime. It was brand new, having spontaneously opened the day before last, yet although it was still one of the newer fixtures in Lumiose it was already one of the most popular. During the breakfast, lunch, and dinner rush hours, getting anywhere on North Boulevard was difficult due to the lines and crowds around the crepe cart. It was for this reason that Alan and the Professor set out early, in the hope of at least being near the front of the line, if not ahead of it entirely. The weather was nice, besides—warm enough so that Alan could get away with just wearing a t-shirt for once, but not so hot that he couldn’t still wear his scarf (though he doubted it could ever be hot enough for that—heat, despite how others complained about it, had never bothered him)—and setting out early allowed them to walk down to North Boulevard instead of having to drive.

But although they were sure to be ahead of the lunch rush on North Boulevard, the day was still fresh enough that the Lumiose City streets were crowded. Aside from the occasional gogoat that galloped past, or the furfrou pups that wove around their legs to continue scampering down the sidewalk, Alan and the Professor had to weave through the throngs of people (and occasionally jump out of the way of a skater careening down the pavement) as they made their way to North Boulevard. This was nothing new, and with the weather as pleasant as it as and the Professor animatedly talking about a new carracosta documentary premiering that night that he was excited to watch, Alan wasn’t bothered by it. It was normal to be jostled by the other passersby on the sidewalk, and normal for furfrou puppies to be a bit clumsy as they made their way down the street. What wasn’t normal was what happened after he and the Professor passed Café Introversion, and had just about reached the side street that led down to Vert Plaza. Someone speed-walking past them bumped into the Professor, and that was fine—normal, even, impossible to avoid on a street like this, and that alone wasn’t enough to catch Alan’s attention. What was enough to catch his attention was that not only did the man not look back as he muttered a hasty “sorry,” but he held the Professor’s wallet in a tight grip in his left hand.

“Hey!” Alan snapped, loudly enough so that several people nearby turned to look. The man stiffened, his gait faltering for only a moment. As the Professor looked over at Alan in alarm, Alan said, “Give that—!”

That was all it took. The pickpocket took off in a dead sprint toward the side street, shoving a middle-aged woman out of his way as he ran, and Alan (hissing “Son of a—!” beneath his breath the second the pickpocket bolted) gave chase, the Professor calling after him.

If there was one thing that could be said about the pickpocket, it was that he was fast. If there was another thing that could be said about him, it was that he clearly knew the streets of Lumiose City well. But while speed might have been on his side, if for no reason other than the fact that he was lankier and had longer legs than Alan, he wasn’t the only one familiar with the city. It didn’t matter that Alan had been gone for years, or that he had only been back for three weeks; Lumiose was still his home, and he could still navigate it in his sleep.

The side street led to Vert Plaza, and if someone kept going straight, they would eventually end up in Centico Plaza, by Prism Tower. The pickpocket had other ideas. After weaving around pedestrians on the side street in an attempt to lose Alan (a futile effort, really, given that Alan was able to dodge and weave around them _without_ shoving them into buildings), the pickpocket threw himself down a tiny alley on the right side of the street, which opened on the street that connected Centrico Plaza to the very end of North Boulevard. As Alan thought he might, the pickpocket took a hard right the second he made it out of the alley, bolting toward North Boulevard for all he was worth. Alan had to give him credit; he was smart, taking so many turns and heading toward a wide open, crowded street, rather than the circular Centrico Plaza, especially since the street that connected the two was crowded enough as it was, slowing Alan down even as he jumped over a sleeping gogoat and ducked low to avoid running straight into a waiter bringing a tray of food out to customers seated outside. But the problem with crowded main streets was simply that—they were crowded, and while that was good for losing a pursuer, it wasn’t so good for making a hasty getaway.

Case in point:

The pickpocket sprinted onto North Boulevard, Alan in hot pursuit, and barely missed a taxi as he ran hell for leather across the street. He stumbled, spinning out of the way as if that would help him in the event of a hit-and-run, but kept running once he saw that he was in the clear. Alan, for his part, was thankful for the timing; the taxi driver had slammed on his brakes in an effort to avoid mowing down the pickpocket, and his sudden stop was enough to allow Alan to throw himself across the hood in a spontaneous handspring, far more gracefully than he had six years ago when he had chased Gabby halfway across the city when he first met and brought her home. He hit the ground running, not breaking stride even as the taxi driver blared his horn and shouted something Alan didn’t catch (though it sounded profane) from his window at the pair of them, and as they passed the TMV Station Alan took his chance, jumping on top of a nearby bin so that he could jump off it and catch the pickpocket in a flying tackle.

The momentum of his tackle, combined with the fact that the pickpocket had already been running, sent them both sprawling onto the pavement. The pickpocket hit the ground first; his face smashed against the concrete, but the momentum was enough to make them tumble. Alan used it to his advantage, flipping the pickpocket over him so that he ended up on top, his knee driving into the pickpocket’s back between his shoulder blades, one hand holding the pickpocket’s right arm against the ground, the other holding his head secure.

“Let go of the wallet,” Alan said.

“You motherfuckin’—!” the pickpocket swore, and either it was because his face was smashed against the sidewalk or because his mouth was filled with blood (or both—Alan supposed ‘both’ was a reasonable answer in cases like these), but his voice sounded a bit thick. He struggled against Alan’s hold, and so Alan pressed a little harder against his back. “Get _off_ —!”

“Let go of the wallet first.”

“Alan!”

Alan looked up as the Professor—taking more care not to cut off taxis than either the pickpocket or Alan had—finally caught up to them. He was visibly winded, but no worse for the wear, and Alan frowned as he caught up.

“We didn’t run that far. You should exercise more. Maybe you can come join me and Lizardon for our training exercises. Gabby can come, too.”

“Running is just not my favorite activity,” the Professor said, his voice a little breathless. He nodded toward Alan and the pickpocket. “More importantly—do you think you should perhaps let him up?”

“Not until he returns what he stole.” Alan looked back down at the pickpocket, who had turned his face just enough so that he could glare at Alan with one eye. Sure enough, there was blood smeared across his mouth, though Alan couldn’t tell if it was _from_ his mouth, or from his nose instead. “Ready to give it up?”

“Here! Take it!” The pickpocket threw the wallet at the Professor’s feet, and only once the Professor had squatted down to pick it up did Alan clamber off the pickpocket. By this time, there was a decently sized crowd of passersby watching them, a few of them snapping pictures on their phones. Alan tried not to notice. The pickpocket sat up, and gingerly touched his bleeding face with his hands. “Shit, man, my fucking _face_ —!”

“Don’t steal from people, then,” Alan said flatly.

It wasn’t that he didn’t feel bad, because he did, at least a little. The man’s injuries did look bad, at least as far as the amount of blood went. But however much blood there was, the fact remained that the pickpocket had brought it on himself. He was the one who had decided to rob the Professor. If he was afraid of getting hurt, then he shouldn’t have decided to rob people in the first place. Besides, it wasn’t as if Alan had _intended_ to hurt him, it was just that injuries were sort of unavoidable when someone was hit with a running tackle.

All the same, the pickpocket didn’t seem to appreciate Alan’s admonishment. He turned to Alan with a furious, slightly tearful stare, but as he opened his mouth to say something in reply, he seemed to finally take notice of the people gathered around. Whether it was because he had been caught red-handed, or because he knew that whatever he had been about to say wouldn’t win him any favors was unclear; but as several people in the crowd snapped a few more pictures on their phones, the pickpocket wiped some of the blood off his face with his shirt sleeve, shoved himself to his feet, and then ran off down North Boulevard, once again pushing past people as he went.

“Well, that was eventful,” the Professor said as Alan stood up. Alan brushed dirt off his jeans before he turned to the Professor, who was looking at him in slight concern. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Alan said. “He broke my fall. Did you check your wallet? Is everything still in there?”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be too big of a problem if it wasn’t,” the Professor said.

Alan frowned, unable to curb the dash of frustration that welled up inside him. “What do you mean? That’s your money, your License, your—”

“No, it isn’t,” the Professor said. Alan stared at him, unsure of what to make of that, and the Professor grinned before he gestured for Alan to step closer to the buildings, out of the way of the passersby. “Here, I’ll show you.”

The two of them ducked into the shade of the TMV Station (the passersby having started to go about their business again now that the show was over), and as they did, the Professor handed his wallet over to Alan. Alan took it, still frowning, and opened it—

Only to blink, his mind jarring a bit at what he saw.

Instead of the Professor’s License, credit cards, cash money, or—anything, really, that a person would normally keep in a wallet, the Professor had pictures. Each fold where a credit card would be stored a picture instead. There was a picture of Gabby trying on a wide sun hat and flowy scarf; there was one of Gabby and Camille posing with sunglasses in the yard; there was one of all the zigzagoon making a huge pyramid not unlike the ones cheerleaders would make, the resident psyduck somehow perched on top, and Jigsaw—the resident linoone—seemingly directing them. There were some pictures of people, too, such as one of Cosette balancing a stack of combee on her head while Sophie laughed in the background; one of Fulbert putting his face in his hands while his assistants Sina and Dexio posed back-to-back in front of him, their hands held up like they were holding guns as they grinned; one of Meyer making pancakes with the assistance of his blaziken, Toast; and in the slot that would normally hold the Professor’s ID—

“This is . . .”

It was a picture of himself and Lizardon—an old picture, from long before they had set on their journey, back when Lizardon was still just a charmander and (from the looks of him) shortly after he had hatched. Alan’s younger self was holding Lizardon, cradling him in his arms, laughing as Lizardon gummed on a strand of his hair. Lizardon’s tail flame was brushing against Alan’s old lab coat, and from the looks of it the hem had caught fire a bit, but Alan’s younger self seemed to be too busy laughing to notice.

“To be fair, you only came back three weeks ago,” the Professor said, and Alan tore his eyes away from the photograph to look back at the Professor. “I haven’t really had time to get an updated picture, and that one was always one of my favorites, besides. You were both so cute.”

“Lizardon was,” Alan said, and he looked back down at the photo. It was a bit surreal to look at. He could remember vividly when Lizardon was that small, when he gummed at things because his fangs hadn’t grown in yet, when he used to ride around in the hood of Alan’s lab coat. Lizardon was immediately familiar. The laughing boy holding him, on the other hand . . . 

“That aside, you see? There was no need to worry. Even if the thief had made off with my wallet, the only thing he would have made off with is a collection of cute pictures. And don’t worry,” the Professor added, “I have copies of every one back at the lab, so I wouldn’t lose them forever. They would just find a new home with someone who would hopefully appreciate them as much as I do.”

“I see.” Alan closed the wallet and handed it back, and—just as he had before—the Professor stuck it in his back pocket. “Sorry I caused a scene over nothing, then.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. It’s still nice to get it back, and you were only trying to look out for me, besides.” The Professor smiled. “Though, try to be more careful about it next time. Even if it was my actual wallet, it’s not worth you getting hurt over.”

It was, but it also wasn’t a point that Alan knew he could win by arguing, so instead he asked, “Where do you keep your actual wallet? You’re not wearing a coat, so . . .”

The Professor’s grin widened, and he opened the small pocket on the front of his button-up shirt. From within he produced a very small, thin little fold, and when he opened it, it contained nothing more than his License and a credit card.

“It’s much harder for people to steal this way, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked, as he slipped it back into the pocket and buttoned it.

Alan laughed softly, and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I would say that it is.”


End file.
